


Thirty Years

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Marriage, Retirementlock, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Thirty years. <i></i></i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i><br/><i> Thirty years together and he was still as beautiful as the first day they met, when John’s breath had caught at the sight of that curly head bent over a microscope. <i></i></i></i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Years

Thirty years. 

Thirty years together and he was still as beautiful as the first day they met, when John’s breath had caught at the sight of that curly head bent over a microscope. 

Twenty-nine years from the time that the man had fallen, windmilling through the air, to crash unmoving onto hard cement. Blood pooling, clotting, deep ruby red against marble skin and dark hair. Twenty-nine years from the day John had died right alongside him.

Twenty-seven years from the day he came back to life, dim restaurant lights illuminating his ridiculous mustache. From the day that Sherlock had given him a stupid grin as he held out a bottle of overpriced wine and John’s heart had leapt from his chest. 

Twenty-six years from the day Mary had left, taking the child that was not his, Sherlock standing there with him as she got onto the plane.

Twenty-four years from the first time he and Sherlock had crawled into bed together. 

It had been after a week long case, both men shaking from exhaustion. They had returned to Baker Street and, sinking into the couch, fallen asleep immediately. At some point during the night, John had nudged Sherlock awake, leading him into the bedroom, collapsing onto the mattress beside him. When John woke to Sherlock wrapped around him, it had been natural to press a kiss to the younger man’s brow. The consulting detective had stirred, pressing into the kiss unknowingly, blinking at the sunlight streaming in through the curtains. He had smiled up and pressed a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth before bounding into the kitchen to call Lestrade. John had followed, stopping by the bathroom, before heading into the kitchen. He flipped on the kettle, leaning on the counter. Sherlock finished his call, and stood in front of John, rocking nervously from foot to foot. John reached forward, opening his arms. Sherlock had stepped in, allowing himself to sink into John’s embrace. And that was that. There were awkward conversations, and massive arguments about who was responsible to take the rubbish out and change the sheets, but they were together, and they were happy.

They were never lovers, not in the common sense of the word, despite everyone believing so. They had discussed it, but Sherlock was not interested, and John was accepting. 

Their relationship was never easy, not that either of them expected it to be. Sometimes, Sherlock would become angry at feeling ‘broken’, at feeling like a ‘freak’, unable to turn off his mind for just one minute. John would smile and hold him, stroking his back, giving him other stimulus to focus on. Sometimes, John would get fed up at Sherlock, telling him that he could do better, that Sherlock could find someone smarter, prettier than John and storm away. When that happened, Sherlock would knock once and leave a cup of tea outside the closed bedroom door. Each knew what the other needed, the years of familiarity breeding easy understanding. No, they never were lovers, but they did love; wholly, deeply, and completely. 

And now, thirty years to the day of meeting, twenty-four years from waking up and realizing what they had, John was still struck with awe at the man asleep in his bed. They had fallen asleep late the night before, ignoring the open curtains. They had kissed sleepily, hands stroking and roaming without purpose, the sound of distant night traffic covering murmured endearments. Sherlock had curled around a pillow in place of John, who was “too warm” to hold all night. The blankets were curved around him, just covering his plush backside. The light fell through the window, striking a diagonal pattern against the man's bare back, tapping its way along his spine. Dust motes floated in the air, cascading down in the static silence. 

John stared, tea in hand as the man before him murmured quietly and shifted, squeezing the pillow tighter between his arms. 

There were many things that had changed over the years. Lestrade retiring to a desk job, then retiring completely to work on the motorcycle he finally pulled out of storage. Mycroft easing up on the surveillance. Mrs. Hudson, selling them Baker Street, but remaining on as a tenant. Molly finally marrying someone who was neither gay nor a psychopathic criminal, having beautiful twin boys with big brown eyes and blonde hair.

The things that had changed for the men themselves were mostly inconsequential, just little bits here and there, proving that time goes on. A lull in the amount of cases they took on that required dashing about London. A touch more of grey in John’s hair, two streaks of brilliant white adorning Sherlock’s temples. Laugh lines at the corners of both their eyes. Sherlock sleeping more, developing a taste for honey in his tea that he drank as he sat on the fire escape in the early morning hours. Their nightmares had eventually slowed, but they still struck from time to time. Sherlock would writhe wildly, trapped in his own mind. John, always a light sleeper, would wake and pull the other man out of the dark recesses. They would curl up together on the settee, John stroking Sherlock’s curls where they rested on his lap. Other times, it would be John who woke in a cold sweat, gunshots echoing in his head. Sherlock would rock him back and forth, eventually slipping out of bed to make a cup of tea, strong and milky the way John liked it.

Sometimes, it wasn’t gunshots that woke John. Sometimes it was the crack of a whip, a distant dark room where his breath fogged in the air. Where he watched in horror as Sherlock whimpered, eyes dull with pain. Those dreams had begun after he had seen Sherlock’s scars for the first time. They were duller now than the day he had first seen them, the skin not as shiny, as puckered, as red. He had come home from the clinic late one day. Sherlock hadn’t heard him walk into the flat and was standing with his back to their bedroom door. John had entered, and inhaled sharply, dropping the shoes in his hand with a thump. Sherlock had turned in surprise, eyes wide and nervous, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, wet curls dripping down his back. There was the deep scarring of a bullet track on his calf, the pockmark from a knife tip on a rib. But it was where his back was scarred, the skin bumpy where it had been ripped apart and stitched back together, that caused John to halt in his tracks. Sherlock remained frozen as John stuttered out a breath, unable to speak. Eventually, John had moved slowly forward, taking Sherlock by the hand and leading him to the bed. He removed the towel, sliding it off and dropping it to the side. Sherlock lay beneath him, sprawled across the dark cover. John had remained, hovering above the long pale body. He marked each scar, first with a gentle hand, then with a brush of his lips. By the time he finished, night had fallen and Sherlock was shaking with an emotion there was no name for. John was shaking too, equal parts rage, guilt, and love shattering through his frame. 

Whatever the paths they had taken, whatever choices they had made, they would always have ended up together. This was something that John knew. They were meant for each other, the clash of sea and shore, the dark night and bright sunrise. It was strange that it had taken them so long to find each other, but now that they had, John was never going to let go. 

John jolted from his thoughts as Sherlock stirred, stretching. His back arched off the bed, sheet pooling in his lap as he twisted around to blink sleepily at John. Pillow forgotten, he stretched a hand out to his partner, a soft smile crossing his face.

“Good Morning, John. Happy Anniversary.”

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> Thanks to [Janto321](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321) for the beta


End file.
